


Shalom

by CSIGurlie07



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 19:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CSIGurlie07/pseuds/CSIGurlie07
Summary: A chance meeting in an unlikely place and an unlikely time. Slight AU. Pre-series. Rated for some violence and a bad word or two.[transferred from FFnet; orig. published 2/6/2010]





	Shalom

Gibbs raced through the empty desert streets, his heart pounding with exertion as his arms burned from the weight of his rifle. His M40 A1 sniper rifle felt like pure lead in his hands, but he knew he couldn't let go, even if it was slowing him down. It was  _ his _ rifle, after all. If he left it in the desert, he would leave part of himself too. He could hear an all too familiar creed echo absurdly in his ears as the bland sand-colored walls lining the street sped by.  _ This is my rifle. There are many like it but this one is mine… _

It wasn't until three agonized breaths later that he realized that he was both alone and lost. He had already known that he was alone, despite his reluctance to admit it, but the disorientation was a new development, coming only after he had started his mad dash through the desert town, twisting and turning in an attempt to evade his pursuers.

His op had gone bad. Plain and simple. That's what his superiors will say when they reported to  _ their _ superiors. What they won't mention is how his spotter had been caught in a surprise counter-snipe that had sent warm blood misting over Gibbs' right cheek, dotting his skin with the occasional splotch of brain matter. There had barely been time for Gibbs to register that death of his friend before his keen eyes spotted the familiar shape of a shoulder-fired rocket launcher aimed directly at his position.

Instinct had thrown him over the edge of his rooftop, and only the pliable cloth of an unexpected awning saved him from falling four stories onto rocky street. The moment he connected with the cloth, the rooftop and his spotter's corpse both exploded into a fiery inferno. The blast disoriented him long enough for the shouts of approaching militants to come dangerously close to his position before Gibbs managed to scramble into a deserted alley. He had shoved all thoughts of his fallen comrade from his mind and focused on only one thought as he began his race through the town, which suddenly became much larger than he had initially appreciated. His one and only purpose now was to evade capture.

If he fell into enemy clutches, there would be no rescue—that had been made clear at the briefing prior to the mission. He and his partner could have refused the assignment as a matter of formality, but they had both been two proud Marines. They were expected to accept the mission despite the risks, and they had been all too happy to not disappoint. But now his spotter was dead, blasted to pieces on some nondescript demolished rooftop in some backwater desert town, and Gibbs was forced to admit that his chances were growing slim.

He took as many turns as he could in an attempt to confuse the enemy and put more distance between them and himself, but with each changed route he only made himself more disoriented. He had been unable to fully scout the town before settling into his position—the whole op was rushed and harried due to the expedient nature of their target. They'd had a limited time frame before the target disappeared, and he had failed to meet the deadline.

Now his lack of recon beforehand was catching up to him, and he mentally cursed himself. He didn't dare slow down to glance at the map in his belt pouch, for fear of allowing the insurgents on his tail the chance to gain on him. By this point the noncombatants of the town had withdrawn into their homes and barricaded their doors, herding their families out of sight and out of any potential crossfire.

_ Family _ . For the first time in his life, Gibbs wondered if he would be able to keep the promise he had made to his six year old little girl, his promise to return home in time for her seventh birthday. His CO had personally guaranteed the leave; as soon as the op was complete, successful or otherwise, he was being sent stateside for two weeks. But that outcome was seeming less and less likely with step he took. He needed to find cover, and soon. He had to contact base and set a new rendezvous point, and alert the command to the death of his partner.

His preoccupation with his impending tasks muffled the sounds of an approaching runner until it was too late. He was just taking a hard right—and nearly skidding on the thin layer of loose dirt that covered the street as he did so—and collided with the shrouded form of a black burka-clad woman.

Gibbs' barely recovered balance left him at the mercy of the other individual's momentum, which sent him sprawling backwards. The other form was much smaller than his own, but it quickly became apparent that it was not a woman under the billowing shroud the moment Gibbs lashed out on instinct.

His blow was deflected by a strong hand that sent a jarring sensation up his tired arm, and a fist connected with the side of his neck, making him see stars for the briefest of moments before a knee just barely missed his groin. But adrenaline dulled the pain in both his neck and hip, and Gibbs managed to maintain his grip on his Kate, using the rifle to shove his assailant away and give him room to roll to his feet.

Before Gibbs managed to reorientate himself and prepare for his opponent's onslaught, the sudden stranger got his feet as well. Gibbs watched as time slowed down and his vision tunneled as he faded in the familiar fight or flight awareness. His assailant stood, moving from a crouch to his full height in one fluid motion, simultaneously curling a tanned arm up to rip the burka away while the other arm leveled a previously concealed semi-automatic handgun at Gibbs' head. Gibbs instinctually aligned the sights of his own weapon at the stranger, but was instantly shocked when he discovered that his amended identification of his assailant was incorrect. It was not another insurgent on the other end of the muzzle, no hardened young man—but a woman.

No, Gibbs corrected himself as his eyes darted over the small form in front of him. Not a woman.

A girl.

The father in him shouted for him to lower his weapon, but the Marine refused to, and it was that cautionary voice Gibbs heeded. He was all too aware of the girl's own gun—a Berretta Model 70, if he wasn't mistaken—that was poised to send his brains to the same fate of his partner's.

She was no older than thirteen years old, with golden skin and curly brown hair so dark it was almost black in the desert sun. Without the burka, she was clad in a cream-colored salwar and a short-sleeved fern green kameez that fell past her knees. But that was where the traditional garb ended, as her feet were protected by heavy combat boots and a tassled red and white desert scarf was tied haphazardly around her neck, ready to be pulled over her nose and mouth at a moment's notice to ward off the gusts of sand that were common in the region. But what captured Gibbs' attention the most was not the conflicting image before him—not the mix-and-match of traditional Afghan garb and tactical gear, nor the deadly weapon wielded by such a young girl… No.

It was her eyes.

They were dark and stormy, shadowed with a controlled fury that smoldered with an intensity that should have been far beyond her capability. They were so guarded, so hard that they glinted in the afternoon sun. And yet they were also clear and alert, boring deep into Gibbs' core as she held his gaze. She regarded him with a cool and practiced eye, though her gaze never once left his during her silent appraisal.

She didn't move, her entire body coiled to spring into action at the drop of a dime. He recognized that tension in her limbs from his interaction with special ops teams, from having spent time around men who expected the worst to happen at any given moment. He almost missed the lightning-quick dart of her eyes when she glanced at the left breast pocket of his blouse, and when her eyes returned to his a moment later, Gibbs knew she had seen and comprehended the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor embroidered there. Her expression never changed, but the wariness seemed fade from her gaze—she knew he was a Marine. In its place was an odd look, one Gibbs was sure a lioness would have when regarding her prey.

Her weapon did not waver in the slightest from where it pointed between his eyes. She was obviously familiar with it,  _ too  _ familiar for one her age, and it was the result of professional training, rather than the fumbling of a desperate child struggling to survive in a violent world. In the back of his mind, Gibbs couldn't decide which would sadden him more—that she had been deliberately moulded from such a young age, or that she was forced to survive on her own in the only way she could learn how.

But in practical thought, the training of the girl—saddening or not—left Gibbs in a precarious position. He knew he should not have hesitated to shoot, as she was no longer a noncombatant, but the damage had been done. Did he now have the skill and speed to get a shot off before she put a round through his skull?

But while she was no longer a noncombatant, she had not killed him yet either, though her familiarity with her weapon left no doubt in Gibbs' mind she could. Maybe, just maybe, they could both survive their silent stalemate.

Suddenly, her dark eyes focused on something behind him, but before Gibbs had time to even blink, let alone turn around, a gunshot cracked deafening in the deserted street as the muzzle of her Berretta flashed once. But the pain of the gunshot wound that Gibbs anticipated never came; instead he sensed only the heat and slight sting of a bullet that whistled past his right ear. Then there was a dull thud as the round impacted with something soft, followed instantly by the soft pop of a bullet exiting a skull.

Gibbs whipped his head around to see a turbaned man topple from the low rooftop behind him, an AK-47 slipping uselessly from his limp fingers to clatter on the street. The man landed heavily on the weapon, but the hole over the man's left eyebrow told Gibbs that the corpse was far beyond caring.

An iron fist clamped down on Gibbs' gut as he took in the girl's deadly accuracy. His gaze returned to hers, finding that her weapon was once again trained on him. He froze, unwilling to blink in trepidation or give her any kind of indication that she had shaken him. But there was already a gleam in her eyes that hinted she already knew she had shocked him.

It was in that moment that Gibbs fully realized—and accepted without question—that he was completely at the mercy of a thirteen year old girl.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the faint whistle of the wind as it passed through the streets, rustling the girl's dark curls ever so slightly. But even that was not enough to cause the girl to even blink, let alone shake her aim. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed to stretch to an eternity, her arm lowered.

With the Berretta pointed towards the dirt, Gibbs released a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. His own Kate drifted from its target, and the girl squared her shoulders as she continued to gaze at him. She didn't appear to weigh more than a hundred pounds, but her toned, slim frame held the regality of a woman who was sure of herself and her capabilities. Suddenly, she seemed much older; mature, and wise beyond her years.

Another moment passed between them as neither spoke, instead merely observing each other. Gibbs wondered briefly what  _ she _ saw in  _ him _ . A normal thirteen year-old would see an 'old' man, as any thirteen year old would describe anyone over the age of twenty-five. They would see a man out of breath and dirty beyond anything they had ever seen before, with a gun they wouldn't recognize and a uniform that meant nothing to them.

But this girl wasn't normal in any sense of the word. She recognized his uniform, and for all he knew she may have even used a rifle very similar to his own in the past. The blood and brain on his skin didn't faze her, and she was quickly becoming as sandy as he was. But did she see a soldier on the run? A man fleeing from an obviously failed op? Did her guarded gaze hide nothing but contempt for him, with the belief that she could have done better?

Or did she see him as a potential ally? Had she run into a man she felt she could trust? Was he fighting the same enemies as she? Oddly enough, Gibbs found that he cared what she thought of him, and not out a sense of self-preservation. When the gleam in her eye shifted into something softer, Gibbs was suddenly struck with the need to put her at ease. Her body was still tense, still wound tightly in anticipation of the danger that was sure to pop out from behind the nearest corner. Now both father and Marine were in agreement—the sooner he familiarized himself with this stranger, the better. Did she speak English?

"My name is—"

"I do not want or need your name," the girl interrupted.

Her voice was a lower pitch than he had expected, but it was also smooth and melodic. It was thickly accented, but the precision of her English prevented him from identifying what her native language might be. He thought he heard traces of Arabic in her pronunciation, which hinted at fluency, but it was obvious she was not of Afghani heritage, despite her attire.

Gibbs did not try to speak again, relinquishing control of their interaction to the girl. It was the least he owed her, considering—considering she had saved his life. Gibbs froze, fully comprehending the events that had just transpired for the first time.

She had saved his life. Moments ago she had eliminated a threat, and act that had shocked Gibbs in and of itself, regardless of her intentions. But now Gibbs realized that she had saved his life, by committing an act that had seemed so abominable at the hands of one so young. Gibbs felt the tingle of abrupt shock linger in his gut.

Who the hell was this girl, and what was she doing in the middle of a combat zone?

"Second right, third left."

The girls' voice cut through the silence once more, only this time Gibbs lacked comprehension, despite her seeming mastery of the language.

"What?" Gibbs asked. The girl rolled her eyes ever so slightly, which dug irritatingly at Gibbs' pride. But he swallowed said pride when the girl nodded in the direction she had come from—the direction Gibbs had been springing in when they had collided.

"Second right, third left," she repeated. "Knock twice, and you will find shelter."

The girl's words sounded like a riddle in Gibbs' ears, but it was immediately clear that it was all she was going to give him as she switched the safety on her semi-automatic before tucking into the back of her waistband, under the long hem of her kameez. She then reached down to pull a nondescript black book bag from under the pile of discarded burka that rested on the street and slung it over her shoulders before crossing past Gibbs—well out range of his reach, he noticed—to claim the fallen insurgent's AK-47. She checked the number of rounds in the clip before sliding the magazine back home with expert ease. She then smoothly racked the charging handle back to slide a round into the chamber.

Gibbs watched her do so, but she did not look at him again. It was evident that she had completely disregarded him, both as a threat and an interest. But when she turned to leave, Gibbs could not remain silent any longer.

"Wait!" he said forcefully, the stress of the past ten minutes all too evident in his voice. He was surprised when the girl stopped, and then turned back to face him with a look that was half-annoyed and half-curious. The AK-47 rested in one hand, her small fingers barely long enough to fully wrap around the handgrip. Gibbs realized that in order to squeeze the trigger, she would have to use two hands to keep the weapon steady, given the rifle's inconvenient adult-designed dimensions.

"Who are you?"

A loaded question to be sure. Both father and Marine deemed the inquiry necessary, but for two vastly different reasons. The Marine wanted to know who, if anyone, the girl was working with, in order to determine who he should be on the lookout for as he continued on his way. The father in him wanted to know this girl's name, where she was from, and why her own father wasn't shielding her from the horrors she had and will encounter in a place such as this.

But instead of answering, the girl's brown eyes rolled away once more, before pausing for a moment and then returning to him. She regarded him again, this time with the smallest of smiles on her lips as she debated whether or not to answer him. Her left eyebrow was arched, almost cynically, her head tilted ever so slightly in a pose that again struck him as too mature for someone her age, despite the weapon in her hand.

Finally, her lips pursed slightly as her head straightened and the grin grew just a little bit. Her gaze met his and immediately he was again shocked by the depths of her brown eyes. They were serious again, but held no gleam and none of the softness that been present before. Now, Gibbs could detect the slightest hint of respect in her gaze as she gave him a firm nod and a single word.

" _ Shalom. _ "

With that, the girl turned and jogged around the nearest corner, her steps light despite the heavy boots on her feet. Within moments she was out of sight, and Gibbs knew that it was last he would ever see of the mysterious teenager. He stood there in the middle of the street for a few moments more, too stunned by the seemingly unreal experience he had just been a part of. But then the faint sounds of his pursuers returned to his ears, and he knew he had to keep moving. Turning towards where the girl had indicated moments ago, he sent a silent plea to whoever was listening, praying that the girl remained safe.

He began to trot down the street, his former urgency dulled to a steady pounding of his boots. He followed the girl's cryptic instructions on a whim, and took the second turn on the right, then the third turn on the left. To his surprise, he found himself facing a short, clean alleyway that terminated in a simple wooden door.

He approached the door in question carefully, his senses all on high alert. But the only sounds he heard were those of his still-distant hunters. Keeping his Kate close, Gibbs raised his left fist and rapped twice against the door. For a long moment there was nothing but silence from within, and then he detected a faint rustle of movement before the door opened just a crack. A wide eye inspected him for a moment before a voice spoke up.

"You American?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yes." He scanned the alley nervously. "I do not intend to harm you. I was told I might find shelter here." Another moment passed, and then the door opened wider to reveal an Afghan man in his mid-forties.

"Come," the man said finally. "Welcome."

Three days later, Gibbs scooped up his own little girl as soon as he stepped out of the truck and onto his own front lawn. The surprise in both his wife's and daughter's eyes at his unexpected return was a welcome sight, as was Kelly's exuberant screams of delight as her small arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The seven year old didn't notice the deep bruise on the side of the neck, but the damage left by a deceptively effective fist of the unnamed little girl did not get past his wife's cursory inspection. A wry grin told Shannon he would explain it all (a little bit) in due time, and she accepted it with a kiss to his cheek as he wrapped his free arm around his wife.

He knew as soon as he had boarded the plane that would take him home that Shannon would never know of the fate of his partner, nor the fact he had put himself in a situation from which there might not have been a return. She would know only that he had secured some special leave as a reward for a job well done. But oddly enough, he couldn't decide whether or not to tell her about his unlikely savior.

He wanted to, as if doing so might make the girl more real, and not simply a figment of his imagination. It hardly seemed real, even to him. But he knew that if he did tell Shannon, he would trigger her mother instincts that would have her thinking of nothing other than that endangered young teenage girl for weeks on end. And she already had enough to worry about with him as her husband. And after all, he had one assurance that told him the girl had indeed been tangible.

_ Shalom _ .

A single word.

The Hebrew word for peace.

It told him that in all likelihood, the girl had been attached to Mossad at some point, especially when he learned that Israel had had a vested interest in Gibbs' target as well. It then came as no surprise that the man was confirmed dead by multiple sources not 24 hours after he had reported his own mission to be a failure. But it did shock him that even an agency as efficient as Mossad was recruiting so young, but in all honesty, that wasn't in the forefront of his mind.

Instead, he could not tear himself away from the fact that she had offered a word that had left him wondering about its intent. Gibbs knew it to be a common salutation, both coming and going, among native Hebrew speakers, but there had been something in her tone that day, even through her thick accent, that had left him feeling she had meant something more.  _ Shalom _ was more than a salutation—it meant peace.

It was odd to hear that word in a warzone, regardless of the language it was spoken in. And yet, she  _ had _ offered him peace. She had killed the man who'd been ready to gun Gibbs down from behind, allowing the Marine the chance to live and see his family again. And she had left him a riddle that had led him to a home that offered acceptance to all. He had been wined and dined for hours until the nearest Marine unit had come to retrieve him, his superiors opting to nix the rendezvous when it was discovered the target was eliminated.

He had found both a respite from the fighting and a chance to wash the blood from his skin, even as militants scoured the city streets looking for him. And not only that, but he found some degree of peace within himself as he realized that in the midst of all the chaos, he'd been granted a look into the hearts of a people who before had either been faceless or carrying a loaded weapon.

Had the girl intended for all of that to happen? The immediate answer would have been no, once upon a time, but it was clear that he could no longer say that with any kind of conviction. Who knew what had been going on behind those piercing brown eyes, the eyes he was sure would stay with him for the rest of his life. And in his heart he hoped that the girl had a family to return to like he did, though his mind told him it was highly unlikely.

But thanks to a single girl, a young woman, really, who had enabled him to return to his family, Gibbs would ensure that his own daughter would grow to become just as confident and just as proud as the stranger had been.

His daughter will know the peace that girl in the desert had been fighting for.

Kelly would have  _ shalom _ .


End file.
